On the whole, Penny Sparkle won't fulfill everyone's expectations, but few can argue it represents another stage in Blonde Redhead's audacious quest for development, even after 17 years and eight albums of trying.

Even if "Time To Dance" doesn't quite ignite the desire to boogie it--like the rest of Mixed Race--awakens something else you might not associate with Tricky: a burning interest to hear what he'll do next.

It will surprise no-one that they sound more natural and free when they sing in their native French tongue, but the tracks sung in English are far, far beyond any vowel-rolling cliché and are actually rather sweet and touching.

Amok is, above all, a very pleasurable listen, basically just the sound of some talented middle aged dudes enjoying themselves. Let it wash over you, and you’ll enjoy it too.

Shaking the Habitual is an entity entirely unto itself; a warm chaos that drinks you in.

The musicians on the album--eight in total including Vic--seesaw between country, folk and indulgent Seventies rock, never reinventing wheels but generally giving the lyrical matter its appropriate platform.

Mice Parade have never before been quite this accessible.

Atmosphere play an autobiographical angle affectingly well. It’s an approach that’ll lead some to conclude When Life… is a little on the dull side, but with six albums under their belt seems the duo’s formula is not about to let them down just yet.

As an exercise in creativity, musical form, experimentation and sheer art, then, Reflections is to be commended, but as a standalone body of work it’s somewhat lacking in the substance, sculpted precision, urgency and depth that made Elaenia such an enthralling proposition.

It’s fun, bizarre and slightly derivative all rolled into one package and there aren’t many bands around in 2015 that could achieve that feat.

While Liberation Transmission may be a lyrical vacuum, it is also a musical masterclass in how to create 12 tracks of killer with almost no filler.

It’s the sound of Low passing up the opportunity for a twentieth-anniversary blow-out and opting instead for a quiet get-together with old friends.

It's a matter of personal taste, but Herren has largely shaken off these doubts with a rich and intriguing piece of work, the strengths of Everything She Touched... largely outweighing any reservations towards this sonically evocative album.

The feminine focus of Remy’s music overlaps with the political in exact and contemporary ways.

For the most part, though, Candy for the Clowns is very good fun; straight-up rock and roll, with no interest in pretension.

Most of the remaining 11 songs on Dear God, I Hate Myself are built around sequencers and beats rather than guitars, and while they’ve by no means called off their flirtations with dramatic bursts of noise, they are only intermittent over the 38 minutes

¡Uno! finally sees the Cali-punk trio letting themselves sound like Green Day, releasing the pressure and defaulting to what they do best.

For all this bravado, BEYONCÉ’s confessional moments are when you connect with it the most.... Flawed? Certainly. Boring? Never.

Reinforced by the layered repetition that comes with recording on tape, this album finds its grace by turning heartache into cheeky, fork-tongued refrains.

Whilst this is arguably down to her much-publicised intention to release as much material as possible over a short space of time, one cannot help but wonder whether - with a keen eye on quality control - the Body Talk trilogy could/should have been a truly groundbreaking single album.

So while it is more of the same, when that same is such an unpretentious joy to listen to it's churlish to complain. That's not to say it's perfect though: one or two tracks are slightly stretched beyond their natural life.

Pictured on the album’s cover taking aim at a heart-shaped pinata, Thao once again sings in a way that conveys both breathless astonishment and world-weary wisdom.

There’s a relentless energy to the music, a beguiling mix of song styles that, on paper, shouldn’t work...but does.

At its best Director's Cut is a dazzling affirmation of Bush's genius as songwriter, performer and producer. Maybe one day we'll take her for granted again. But not today.

Without undermining the worth of the sort of material that forms Beak>'s bread and butter, >> really hit its peaks when it blurs genre distinctions.

Overall, The Third Eye Centre succinctly packs ten years' worth of eccentricities and oddments into a pleasant, if slightly oversized compendium.

There are occasional lapses (‘I Run’ is textbook Embrace, and thus completely forgettable), and probably too few ideas to really sustain a record, plus of course Editors have made pretty much this exact album at least twice in the last ten years, but still--it’s a hell of a rug-pull from a band long written-off, and a reminder to some of us that everything should be approached with an open mind.

For now though, as an album, as a piece of art, it’s beautifully painted but the colour palette needs to expand substantially.